


Devil Went Down

by Ironlawyer



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dark, Dirty Talk, Hydra Steve Rogers, Imprisonment, M/M, Manipulation, Rape, Restraints, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/pseuds/Ironlawyer
Summary: Hydra Steve wants to make Tony feel good.  Tony just wants it to be over.





	Devil Went Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiyaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/gifts).



> Please mind the tags, this story is very dark and graphic.
> 
> A fandom stocking gift for Kiyaar. I hope you find something to enjoy here :)
> 
> Thanks for dawittiest and MsErmestH for beta.
> 
> You can now read this fic translated into Vietnamese [HERE](https://my.w.tt/jdbuKnS9wP)

The words _Hail Hydra_ do not belong on Steve’s tongue. They turn him into a snake spitting venom at everyone who’s ever been close. Mind control, is Tony’s first thought. Clones, Skrulls, alternate realities, the only thing he’s sure of is that this is not Steve.

He has barely woken. The stiffness of muscles long motionless leave him weak and tired as he lays in the med bay of the Hellicarrier. He watches Hydra doctors and soldiers watching him like he’s the one who doesn’t belong.

Steve tells him about his plans, monologuing supremacy like he’s stepped out of a Nazi propaganda film. He talks about his New World and putting things right and how he wants Tony to be a part of it, how hard he worked to bring him back and how thankful he should be that he is here to see this day and how they can live it together.

‘Hail Hydra,’ Steve says like he used to say _Assemble_ and he expects Tony to say it back.

\--

It’s not a prison cell so much as a decked out storage room. The cold metal walls and floor of the Hellicarrier surrounded by mahogany furniture and a bed made up with plush goose feather cushions and Egyptian cotton sheets. The door opens from one side.

‘I’m not a monster,’ Steve says, like the comfort of this prison proves how noble he is. ‘I’m sorry there are no electronics, but I’m sure you understand. There are books on the shelves. Magazines. Plenty to keep you entertained.’

‘Mein Kampf?’

‘I’m not a Nazi, Tony.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’

‘I wish you understood. In time, I’m sure you will.’ Tony would laugh but Steve’s leaning against the virtually empty cabinet and there’s a bottle of bourbon in line with his shoulder. ‘You can have anything you want, Tony,’ he says. ‘Within reason. I want you to be happy.’ Steve opens the cabinet and takes out the bottle and two cut-glass tumblers. He pours a finger in each and holds one out to Tony.

There are things Steve doesn’t know about him. He has a bottle of whiskey in every workshop, apartment, penthouse and office. He tells himself it’s a victory symbol, a trophy there to tell him he beat it, but really it’s the shark pit bellow his tightrope because he needs it there to remind him not to fall. Steve thinks he can lead him to temptation, but there have been countless nights when he has sat alone staring at a bottle, all his losses and failures playing over in his mind, and even then he has not drank.

Tony ignores the glass. ‘I prefer it on the rocks,’ he says.

Steve shrugs and downs it himself. Once Tony would’ve wanted to taste it on those lips. ‘I can get you ice,’ Steve says. He places the other glass on the sideboard next to the bottle. ‘But for now, I’m afraid things are hectic.’

He leaves the glass on the sideboard like he thinks Tony’s that easy.

\--

Weeks pass with little of note. Steve visits him and tells him stories of the past and the future and never of what’s going on now. He is always in the uniform, the cowl flipped back as if to say _I am still Captain America, I am still Steve Rogers._ As if that’s all it would take to convince him, as if the words and deeds of poison that drip from his very essence are not as important as what he looks like.

Tony wonders how long this can go on. How long can this man who wears Steve’s skin keep pretending they are friends?

He brings Tony books and candy wrapped in gold paper with silk ribbons and apologises that it has to be this way. Every day he says _Hail Hydra_ and his shoulders sink when Tony doesn’t say it back.

\--

It’s the first time Steve’s come into the room without looking at Tony and without _Hail Hydra_ on his lips. There is ash in his hair, streaking it grey like he’s as old as his years. The stale tang of metal catches in Tony’s nose and at first he thinks it’s coming from the Hellicarrier. Then Steve removes a glove with his teeth and there’s a dark spot of red on his chin. Tony wonders if someone he knows is dead.

Steve lays his gloves on the sideboard alongside a small black lockbox he carried in with him. There’s a tightness in his movements, each one is careful, deliberate. It reminds Tony of the way Steve moves when they argue. Of that night so long ago in the ruins of the mansion, when they’d both been crumbling and needing something different.

‘I’m a patient man, Tony,’ he says, opening the cabinet and taking out the untouched bourbon. He pours a glass almost to the rim and lays it on the sideboard next to the box. ‘All my life, I’ve been waiting for things.’ He puts the key in the lockbox and opens the lid, his arms blocking it so Tony can’t see what’s inside. ‘I’m done waiting. I want you, Tony. I want you in my life, I want you standing by my side as we clean the scum from the world and make it in Hydra’s image, as it should be.’

Tony imagines some drug of Doctor Faustus’ running through his veins. He has known mind control before and this will be no different. Steve can make him stand by his side, but he can’t make him join him.

‘I want to wake up every morning with you in my bed. I want to taste you. I want to make you feel good,’ Steve says and Tony can only stare back. They are words he has always dreamed of hearing. Alone at night with his hand on his dick he has pictured how Steve would look on his knees. Writhing in the sheets, sweaty and desperate, echoes of Steve’s voice that say words he has never said. Running his fingers through lube and pretending it’s Steve’s tongue. He has come countless times to it.

‘You can’t be serious?’ Tony says now, because this was never how it was supposed to happen. Steve reaches into the lockbox and pulls out handcuffs and rope. Deep red silk and leather with a gold trim, like they were made for Tony. Maybe they were, maybe Steve’s been planning this for a long time. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Tony says. ‘You’re fucking serious.’

‘I’m not going to do anything you don’t want, Tony.’

‘So if I ask you to leave, you will?’

Steve laughs and it is almost _Steve’s_ laugh. Tony can almost see the way Steve used to smile at his dumb jokes, but there’s something strained and hollow there. The tightness in his body doesn’t match the smile. ‘Tony. Come on, now. Neither of us would ever believe that you mean that. I know the way you looked at him. The way you look at me. I know you want this, maybe more than I do.’

Steve steps closer and Tony is stuck to the spot like his limbs have been locked, like he is trapped in the suit when it’s been disabled, like the filter’s malfunctioning and the stiff, heavy air no longer carries enough oxygen. He should use the moves the real Steve once taught him. Bite, scratch, kick him in the dick, anything to stop this from happening.

He just stands there and lets Steve grab his wrists and run his thumb across his hand, in some kind of perverted caress. Light, ghosting, prickling the hairs on his arms like he’s been hit by a chill. It reminds him of how Rumiko used to touch him. He lets Steve wrap the cuffs around his wrists, holding them behind his back.

‘Don’t.’ It’s a desperate, choked noise and Steve only shushes him. He closes his eyes and wonders when he’s going to wake up, what sickness is making him dream this, what perversion in his head is trying to say that this is Steve.

Steve locks the cuffs in place and threads the rope through a loop on the wall meant for holding down storage crates in turbulence.  He pulls it tight, chaining Tony like a dog on a short leash.

‘He always wanted you,’ Steve says and kisses at his jaw and down his neck, lingering at the nape, sucking and biting enough to cause a hickey but nothing more vicious.

‘Stop,’ Tony says. ‘Stop.’ And finally his body moves. He feels it moving, sees it, wonders why it’s moving now and not before. He pulls at the cuffs and leans away, but Steve holds his hips and there is nowhere to go. He is trapped, tight between the cold steel wall and Steve’s warm skin. Only a few inches of slack rope that almost, _almost_ give the illusion of freedom.

Steve sinks to his knees now, unbuckling Tony’s belt. He is pulling down Tony's pants and rubbing his dick over his underwear.

‘Do you really want me to stop, Tony?’ He keeps using his name. It reminds Tony of a salesman who took a psychology class once and thinks it's endearing. Steve sticks his hand in Tony’s underwear and palms his cock. ‘Because I don’t think you want me to stop at all.’

This is not happening. He is not getting hard from this. This is not Steve and this is not his fantasy. But no matter how many times he tells himself that, it’s still Steve’s face and Steve’s hands, the way Steve smells after a battle, the way he moves, the way he talks.

His hands are trembling.  He closes his eyes and wraps his fingers around the rope, running them along the twists, feeling the coarse fabric against his skin. The silk against his wrists is so light and soft he can hardly feel it and he wishes they were wrapped in rope too.

Steve’s tongue is running down the length of his dick now and his body is trying to tell him that this is good. He tries to tell himself it is not Steve’s lips on his dick or Steve’s hands squeezing his thighs, Steve’s tongue rolling down his dick and sucking his balls. He’s getting friction burns on his fingers from the rope.

‘See?’ Steve says. His fingers are massaging Tony’s balls. He runs the tip of a finger down the length of Tony’s erection, lightly scratching, like an insect crawling down his skin. He rubs his thumb through the pre-come beading at the tip, and a hot, cold, painful pleasure shoots down Tony’s spine. ‘I knew you wanted this.’

Tony is easy and weak and it’s been too long since he felt hands that weren’t his own. He can’t make Steve stop and can’t make his body stop either. His hips jerk searching for more, but his shoulders pull back, pushing his hands and back against the cold steel of the Hellicarrier. ‘You love this, don’t you, Tony?’ He licks the tip of Tony’s dick and takes the head in for just a moment, sucking at it like it tastes of candy. ‘Tell me how much you love it.’

‘No.’ Just a hiss. Begging.

‘Oh?’ Steve says. ‘Well, that’s okay, you can show me how much you love it instead.’ And he takes Tony down all the way, his tongue tickling the underside of his dick, slurping and moaning like he was made for this. A sound breaks free from Tony’s throat, halfway between a sob and a moan, because it feels good and it feels awful and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Tony won’t open his eyes, won’t see Steve doing this, won’t let himself pretend that this is what he has imagined for so long. He bites down on his lip, wants to taste blood but can’t bite hard enough and no amount of pain would be enough to fit this feeling. His world is being razed with gentle hands, his body savaged with tenderness. It should be violent, as bloody and destructive to his outsides as it is inside. His breath is hitching and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s about to cry or come.

Steve pulls back and lets his hand take over, slowing, like this is something to be savoured. His fingers slack and barely touching, gliding over skin that wants it tighter, faster.

‘Open your eyes, Tony,’ he says. ‘Look at me.’ Tony shakes his head and Steve’s fingers tighten, just marginally but with the threat of something more. ‘Please, Tony.’ His words are soft and filled with love and just as Steve’s might’ve been. ‘I want to see your eyes. They’re so beautiful.’

He lets his eyes flutter open to the ceiling of the Hellicarrier because he doesn’t want to see anything else. There is a crack in one of the tiles, a hairline fracture that given enough time and stress will spread and degrade the integrity of the entire structure. He wants to count the tiles on the ceiling and calculate how many tons of metal it would take to replace them all. But Steve is getting to his feet. One hand still wrapped around Tony’s cock, he grabs Tony by the chin and turns his face to him, gently, slowly, it could almost be loving. His fingers are soft and they smell like lotion, he didn’t know Steve used hand lotion. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks into Steve’s eyes and tries to tell himself that there is something wrong there, something dark and cold that defines him as this monster and lets Tony believe that _this is not Steve._ But Steve tilts his head and his eyes soften and he says, ‘I love your eyes, Tony,’ and it could be him. In another life Steve might’ve said those words and Tony could’ve smiled and kissed him. In another life, Steve would have touched him like this and he would’ve enjoyed it.

Steve leans in close, trapping Tony’s dick between them. He drapes his arms across Tony’s shoulders and rubs up against his thigh. His knee pushes against Tony’s dick, squeezing it, causing a tight, warm tingle he might once have called pleasure. There’s a bulge in Steve’s pants. Steve’s breath is straining in his ear, and the scales of the suit dig into his skin, scratching like hundreds of fingernails as Steve rocks against him.

‘How long have you wanted this, Tony?’ Breathy, erotic. He knows what Steve sounds like when he’s aroused now. ‘How many times have you touched yourself and whispered my name? Do you watch porn and pretend it’s us? I do. He did.’ Tony wants it to be a lie, because if they could’ve had something then this is so much worse. A perversion of not just Steve and everything he is, but of everything they could’ve been.

Steve’s knee is jostling Tony’s dick every time he rocks, and he can feel the tightness building in his balls. He pushes his hips against Steve because he wants this to be over, but Steve’s knee moves away and he loses the traction, and he is not close enough and his body is still half screaming that he can’t let this happen. ‘Do you dream about fucking me?’ Steve asks, then nips at his ear, licking and sucking, but gentle like a lover might be. ‘He’d have let you, you know?’

He doesn’t believe it.

‘Or do you want to be fucked? Do you want to feel my cock inside you and beg me to go faster, harder, make you feel it all week.’ He had. He had wanted it all. Anything, _anything,_ for Steve. ‘You’d love it,’ Steve says through shaky gasps and Tony knows that he would’ve. He would’ve loved this too if it had been something different.

Steve is rocking erratically now, panting, his fingers shaking against Tony’s back. He drops one arm and his fingers splay across Tony’s ass cheeks. ‘You’d beg to have my come inside you and I’d give you what you want, I’d fill you up. You’d stay like that and everyone would know that you are mine.’ Steve moans and grinds and a finger circles Tony’s asshole. ‘Oh, fuck, Tony.’

He throws his head back and the rocking slows. Tony can feel Steve’s cock twitching against his thigh. He closes his eyes again; he doesn’t want to know what Steve looks like when he comes.

Steve holds him there, stuck in the moment like time has frozen and will never defrost. He rests his head against Tony’s shoulder and pants in his ear. ‘Look what you do to me,’ he whispers. ‘Coming in my pants before we can even get to the main event.’ Like it was an accident and he couldn’t stop himself. He pulls back and holds Tony’s face in his hands, running his fingers through Tony’s facial hair. ‘You’re just too beautiful. You turn me into a savage.’

Maybe it’s over now. Maybe Steve will leave him here, tied up with blue balls, and he can be thankful for it. For the first time since this started Steve’s not touching him. Tony closes his eyes and counts the seconds to remind himself that time is still moving. Then Steve wraps his fingers around Tony’s dick again.

‘Hm, not finished?’ he asks like he doesn’t already know, like he hasn’t pulled away every time Tony got close. ‘Never say I’m a selfish lover.’ Steve nips at his ear, then runs his hands down Tony’s body as he falls back to his knees.

He takes Tony slow. Breathing on his cock, a tingling, ghostly warmth that makes the rest of his body turn cold. Licking, sucking at the tip, tickling his balls. Teasing, drawing it out, until Tony is aching, tight, sore and desperate to come. The words to beg sit in his chest as painful and heavy as the shrapnel ever was. He can hear his blood pumping, feel his muscles tensing, and he lets his hips rock, cock pushing at Steve’s lips. He just wants it to be over. But Steve pulls back. ‘Ah-ah, don’t get greedy, Tony.’

He holds Tony’s hips still, and Tony want to cry and to beg and he needs this to be done before he can’t stop himself, before he’s moaning Steve’s name like this is something it isn’t. ‘Just let me come,’ Tony says and doesn’t let himself think of it as begging, they are just words and it is just a need. It doesn’t mean he wants this.

Steve breathes a sigh like he’s been waiting for this. ‘Since you asked so nicely,’ he says and takes Tony down so far he can feel Steve’s chin brushing at his balls. He doesn’t gag or back away, just bobs hard and fast and brings Tony to the edge in seconds.

He looks down at Steve’s face buried in his cock, Steve’s hair ruffled, his eyes closed and focused. His mouth dripping with spit and his throat working to swallow around the cock in his mouth. _Tony’s_ cock in his mouth.

He comes in Steve’s mouth and down his throat. To his body it feels no different than every orgasm he’s ever had. He focuses on the way his dick moves with the spasms, slow at first, then stronger. The way the tight tingling starts in his groin and radiates, the way his fingers and toes curl like electricity is flowing through him, clamping his muscles, taking them beyond his conscious mind. It’s only physiology, only his body reacting to stimulation.

The buzz of it tapers into something frantic and jittery in his stomach, telling him to run. The tingling warmth of it coils white hot like acid in his belly. He remembers the first time he touched himself to Steve’s face, being taken by the feeling of it, coming harder than he had in years, then stopping to think about it, and how he could hardly look Steve in the eye all week. He had grown out of that shame, but this, he knows, will never leave him.

Steve is still sucking and moaning and it’s getting painful now. He pulls back finally when Tony’s cock is limp and his legs are shaking. He kisses Tony’s cock and thighs and stomach, then gets to his feet.

‘See,’ he says, ‘you enjoyed it after all.’ He spits come into a handkerchief and dabs at his lips like this is a dinner party and he’s trying to be polite about how much he hates the Coq au Vin.

Tony thinks he’s going to be sick.

‘Maybe next time we can go all the way,’ Steve says then leans in and kisses him. Tony tastes himself on Steve’s lips and smells sex on Steve’s skin and it would be so easy to pretend. He wants to let himself kiss back and pretend that this is Steve and it is love and everything will be fine.

Instead he bites Steve’s lip. Tears a chunk from it, tastes the tang of blood and tells himself it is not Steve’s blood.

‘Jesus. Fuck.’ Steve pulls away, blood dripping down his chin and Tony spits the hunk of flesh back at him. Steve raises a hand, trembling and hovering for a moment like he’s going to strike. Then his hand falls and the tension dissipates. He holds the come-stained handkerchief to his lips and grimaces. ‘A little too much to that love bite, Tony,’ he says. ‘You need to learn to be gentle. Though, I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself.’

He leans over and his hands reach for the buckles on the cuffs. The cuffs hit the floor with barely a thump and Tony thinks that maybe if he’d tried harder he could’ve broken them. His legs can’t support him and he falls to his knees, his head inches from Steve's crotch, the fabric is dark with his come.

Steve chuckles. ‘Oh? You want to return the favour? I’m afraid I’m not ready for round two yet. Another day.’ He runs a hand through Tony’s hair and Tony’s breath breaks into a sob. He bites his lip but can’t stop the tears running down his face.

‘I can’t stay.’ Steve takes his hand and steps away and Tony is cold and shaking and alone. He lays down on the floor and wishes he had something to cling to or something to tear apart like he is being torn apart. He wanted this to be over, but it will never be over.

‘I love you, Tony,’ Steve says as he leaves.

He lays there, shaking, can’t even move to pull his pants up, the metal draining his body of heat, giving him reason to shiver. He looks at his wrists, but there’s no sign of the restraints, no bruises or marks that might make it easier to believe this was wrong. Maybe he should’ve fought harder. Maybe he didn’t because he liked the feeling of Steve’s lips around his dick. Maybe it was everything he’s ever dreamed of.

His cock is still shining with Steve’s saliva. He doesn’t touch it, can’t imagine ever wanting to again, he just pulls his pants up, covers the sight of it and wishes it was as easy to conceal the images in his brain.

The smell of come and arousal is heavy, stifling.  He tries to breathe through his mouth but he can taste it on the air and bile builds in the back of his throat. There is nowhere he can go to escape it. He thinks of the bourbon on the sideboard and wonders if this was some sick game from the start. But he doesn’t care. He just wants to stop feeling. Drink has never stopped calling him, but this time is different. This time he has nothing to stay sober for. The lockbox and Steve’s bloody gloves still sit beside the glass. He pushes them aside, out of sight.

He sticks a finger in the bourbon, it’s cool, but not as cold as he likes it. He’s drank far worse, cheap whiskey, cradled in his clothes and warmed by his body heat. It’s not about the taste. He lifts the glass, his hands are trembling so bad it starts to spill. He falls to his knees and the bourbon splashes across the floor covering the smell of sex with the lingering ghosts of a different kind of nightmare.

Not even this would make him feel better. He drops the glass, covers his face with his hands and sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> On [Tumblr](http://ironlawyer.tumblr.com/post/169509193562/fic-devil-went-down)


End file.
